


The Sleeper in the Subway (Phase One)

by mother_finch



Series: The Sleeper in the Subway [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 20:50:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5758345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>THIS IS NOT A PROMPT:<br/>Everything. Hurts.</p>
<p>It’s the first spark of light that flickers in Sameen Shaw’s otherwise dark head. She can almost envision it, this thick blackness that presses against her skull on all sides, causing such a skin splitting headache; then, one single puff of light in the center.</p>
<p>Where am I?</p>
<p>It’s another small match flickering into existence before burning out on the spot. She can smell the smoke as it evanesces in her head, reaching its tendril like fingers to the most remote parts of her brain, searching for an answer.</p>
<p>With a suddenness that leaves her mind’s eye scalding, brightness like a million florescent light bulbs flash to life in her head, revealing not her brain, but a white tiled floor with sterilized metals doors on either side. Adjusting the brightness, she enters the left door without thinking. She just knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sleeper in the Subway (Phase One)

_Everything. Hurts._

It's the first spark of light that flickers in Sameen Shaw's otherwise dark head. She can almost envision it, this thick blackness that presses against her skull on all sides, causing such a skin splitting headache; then, one single puff of light in the center.

_Where am I?_

It's another small match flickering into existence before burning out on the spot. She can smell the smoke as it evanesces in her head, reaching its tendril like fingers to the most remote parts of her brain, searching for an answer.

With a suddenness that leaves her mind's eye scalding, brightness like a million florescent light bulbs flash to life in her head, revealing not her brain, but a white tiled floor with sterilized metals doors on either side. Adjusting the brightness, she enters the left door without thinking. She just knows.

It's a memory, the first to come back to her, and it's bright. So much brighter than the darkness she's been in for only God knows how long. Yet, as irritating as the light is, she can't help but feel the surge of excitement run through her. Those adrenaline pumped jitters that mark the hunt, the chasing and racing only mere seconds before the kill.

* * *

 

The room is darker, with a large projection screen swallowing up the entire far wall. It's filled with video feeds of city streets, all filing in and out of view. Smoke billows from a shadowy figure standing before all the surveillance, and Shaw approaches him easily. She stands at his side as he puffs a cigar, wrinkles all the more deeper in this contrast of light. His icy blue eyes are the only thing left that show his liveliness- his undying youth for the cause.

"Good morning, my dear Sameen," he greets, accent both charming and direct. Taking the cigar from his lips, his eyes flicker to her before returning to the projection.

"Greer," she replies, eyes on him, waiting. Wondering what he could have called her in for, although she already has a small premonition of what. Silence stretches between them as smoke billows towards the high ceilings. Then, just as Shaw feels the twitch of impatience tugging her lips to a frown, Greer smothers the cigar down in a crystal tray; clears his throat.

"It is time for you to get started on your mission," Greer informs her, turning to face Shaw. Her fingers itch with anticipation, heart drumming to the beat of satisfaction; however, she keeps a poker face through it all. _He wants me on this because I can compartmentalize; I am level headed when everyone else is terrified_. "Oh, come on now," he tells her with a grin. "Smile a little."

She gives him the smallest sliver of a half smirk, letting it last only a moment before her mouth falls back to its neutral position.

"What would you like me to do?" Shaw asks, smoothing down the front of her black blazer. Other workers sit at small, metallic desks, typing and watching New Yorkers like ants in their oversized ant farm. Through the glare on one of the screens, Shaw catches the smallest reflection of herself. Dark pant suit, well manicured nails, ebony hair tied back in a tight bun, gun holstered at her waist.

"It's not what _I_ would like you to do," Greer tells her, forcing her focus back from the reflection to him. "It is what _Samaritan_ is asking of you." Shaw forcibly abstains from rolling her eyes. She wants this mission. She's been waiting months for the green light. She'd be damned if anything- an eye roll nonetheless- was to take it away from her. "Let's go over the plan again, shall we?" He asks, although from the tone of his voice, he's no longer speaking to Shaw. Just as the two turn towards the wall, the video feeds slide away, leaving nothing but a white screen and a red triangle like blood on snow.

Three thin black dots blink over the triangle's highest point. Processing. Thinking. Then, with a black line under each letter, it speaks.

**BEGINNING MISSION OVERVIEW**  
  
Watching it, waiting for the screen to change, Shaw can't help but see the image as the justice scale. Balanced and equal, a promise that the country is being protected. _We're protecting the country._

Information spills into neat columns on the screen. Shaw had seen it a hundred times, yet she watches it like it were the first, devouring every detail she'd never caught before.

**Primary Asset: Sameen Shaw  
** Status: Agent; Alive  
Mission Status: Active  
Mission Codename: Search and Destroy  
Phase One: Active  
Phase One Intent: Gather Intel and Report 

Shaw barely finishes the last word before the screen slides over again, unveiling the next part. Shaw's favorite part.

"Target one," Greer speaks as the first photograph pulls onto the screen. Short, spiky hair, rectangular glasses, and an ever present scowl. "Harold Finch, creator of the first Artificial Intelligence." Shaw recites the words internally, knowing each detail by heart.

"Target two, John Reese. Associate of Mr. Finch, and highly dangerous." _Please_ , Shaw scoffs to herself, staring into his cold eyes with an equal amount of menace. _He looks like a push over._ She grabs the hem of her jacket, straining to keep herself from bouncing on the balls of her feet. _The next one, just switch to the next one._

"Target Three, Samantha Groves. Known to you now as Root. Extraordinarily dangerous, with a direct link to the Machine." Shaw barely hears him. Not that she needs to- no, she knows all about this one. Every detail, head to toe. A flicker of a smirk pulls up half of Shaw's features for less than a second, just long enough to relish the sight of this otherwise illusive woman.

"Root," she echoes. The name rolls off her tongue with fluidity and excitement, a tingle running down her spine as her breath catches. Stunning, well trained- a high functioning chameleon. _There one second, gone the next. A thousand identities in a thousand places_. The ultimate hunt, and one Shaw is all too willing to catch.

"I must warn you," Greer tells her, jarring Shaw from her thoughts. Still, she does not turn away from the picture. "She killed our best agent." A sinister grin curls at the corners of her mouth.

"Your best agent wasn't me."

Greer chuckles at that, placing his hands in his pockets just as the scant profile of Root disappears, replaced by a message directly to Shaw.

**Objective: Gather intel and Report**

She groans internally, eyes escaping to Greer's. "What's the point of gathering intel?" Shaw asks him, annoyance evident. He raises an eyebrow at her, waiting patiently for her to continue. "You want the Machine and anyone connected to it destroyed. Why not let me do that? No people, no Machine. _Right_?" He gives his head the smallest shake.

"We need to know what they know," he informs her simply, turning back to the projection. It reflects vividly in his eyes, almost as if he is a part of the creation. "We need to know how to stop the Machine entirely, _not_ just cripple it further. We need the information they have on Samaritan to protect it from their strikes." Shaw clicks her teeth.

"Tell me again, why won't capturing and torturing it out of them work better?" Shaw'd never been much of a people person, but she's definitely down with a little rough housing.

"Because," Greer tells her slowly. "You possess something that no amount of torture could match."

"And what would _that_ be?" Shaw asks him blandly, hoping he's bluffing. That if she catches him in a lie, she'll be allowed to crack some skulls instead of make small talk with terrorists. Greer looks to her, gaze serious as death.

"A relationship," he answers. "A relationship we fabricated and they believed. Your voice is the one they will recognize, and your face is the one they will trust. No one's ever trusted a _gun_ to their temple." Shaw says nothing, slowly processing the information. _A relationship?_ She knew that before Greer rescued her- _from her three targets as he'd described it_ \- she'd been in contact with them. Yet, she has no idea how much contact, nor of what kind. "Just be yourself," he tells her, as if answering her unspoken questions. "Without the urge to kill them," he adds with a smile that could be either friendly or dangerous. Perhaps both.

Pulling his hand from his jacket, he holds a small syringe into the minuscule light of the room. It's filled with a clear liquid, and Shaw peers at it precariously.

"This will leave you incapacitated for approximately eight days. You will wake up in a hospital somewhere in Manhattan. There will be an ear wig under a glass of water on your nightstand, and a microchip taped to the inside of a lampshade on that same stand. When you are alone, you are to put in the ear wig, and insert the chip in any phone they give you. Understood?"

Shaw nods.

"So,” he says to her, bringing the syringe between them like a silent promise. "Are you ready to begin?"

"Oh hell, yes."

_______ **||Phase One: Hospital Bed||** ________

Shaw's eyes burst open, hands thrashing in every direction, feeling for anything anywhere. Everything is blurry at first, and she chokes, something cold shoved down her throat. She brings her fingers to her mouth, peeling away tape stuck to her lips, and yanks a large tube from her throat.

She breathes in.

She breathes out.

Someone has her left arm, and she yanks back, not understanding. Everything is white with the smell of sterilizer, and every inch of her body aches. Still, she ignores it, fighting to understand her situation. The grip returns on her hand as she thrashes, then a weight presses down on her chest, both arms becoming pinned to the cot at either side of her head. Her breathing is labored, not at all helped by the weight pressing down on her ribs. They are tender, as if they're already bruised, and she wonders if she's internally bleeding.

"Sam? _Sam_ , it's me. _Sameen_ , it's _me_. You have to calm down." It takes her a moment to register the voice. The one she'd listened to on Samaritan's recordings, and listened to some more in secret. Shaw blinks a few times, and the blur of shapes snaps into clarity.

Dark curls of hair reach down to her like a long curtain, blocking out the entire world until it's only the two of them. Just herself and Root. Her eyes are a mahogany brown, which only makes her soft skin appear more pale. The only thing Shaw can think is, _Damn, she looks better in person._

However, with one more blink, the thought dissipates, and she remembers exactly who is on top of her. _Target Three_. _That's all she is to you; she's a target._ Suddenly, Phase One sounds exceedingly better, knowing that she can play all she wants while she waits for her second green light.

Silence is a transparent wall between them, pressing each of their mouths shut and holding their eyes wide open. In the background, past their quietly ragged breaths, Shaw can hear a television playing.

"It's been exactly seven days since a Jane Doe was found comatose in the middle of Central Park. Still unclaimed, doctors find her being alive at all is a miracle. Covered from head to toe with innumerable lacerations and contusions, the entire city is wondering: Where _is_ the man responsible?"

Shaw's lungs burn; she can feel Root's knees digging into her chest.

"You're crushing me," Shaw wheezes, unsure why her voice is so slurred, and why her mouth hurts so bad. Root's eyes widen, eclipsing Shaw's entire view with their intensity, as she slides her knees from Shaw's chest. Still, Root remains planted, fingers barely loosening their grip on Shaw's wrists. She studies Shaw a moment, eyes searching Shaw's before stopping, stopping like she's found something she's been searching for for an eternity. Root's eyes begin to shimmer, growing glossy at the edges as she presses her lips together, trying to hide them as they twitch to the side. Root swallows hard, looks away, breathes. When her eyes come back to Shaw's they are more wet than before, but Shaw sees no tears spilling over.

Root releases her grip on Shaw's right wrist, bringing her fingers tenderly to Shaw's face. Shaw's skin tingles with a mixture of pain and unforeseeable exhilaration at the touch. A strand of hair is brushed from Shaw's face, as she lays completely motionless. No one- not a single person- in training at Decima could pin her; yet here she is, down for the count in under a minute. And she doesn't mind it.

Root smiles at her. It's a small smile, one that starts with the last traces of an unimaginable pain and ends in ineffable disbelief. A pressure being lifted from Root's chest more and more with each second.

"You're going to be okay now," Root tells her, voice soft and cracked and vulnerable. Shaw's mind flashes to her description. _Extraordinarily dangerous. Chameleon_. She doesn't look like that. Then, Shaw is reminded of her one arm still pinned by her head, and remembers looks can be deceiving. Root's fingers trace the gaunt hollows of Shaw's cheek, then up her jaw line. Shaw forces the smallest of shivers from racing down her spine. "I swear to you, you're going to be okay now."

Shaw isn't sure what to do, nor what to say. So, instead, she gives Root an even smaller smile in return.

________ **||Phase One: Report to Base||** ________

The other two targets came and went, along with a detective named Lionel Fusco. He'd mentioned some memories Shaw was certain didn't exist, yet by the end of his visit, blurry outlines began to surface. She suppresses them all, not willing to believe a word any of them say. _They're manipulative and cunning, and now they have police support_. After an hour of medical tests- Root holding a clip board in the corner with a lab coat on- the nurses let her be. An hour after that, John Reese took Root, who was practically clinging to the walls in protest. They left her a cellphone.

She waits five minutes before sitting up. Everything still aches, and she can't help but to wonder where all of her injuries came from. _What, did they throw me in a meat grinder on the way here?_ As it turns out, a rib is in fact broken, along with her ankle, with the rest of her bones bruised. Stitches slither like snakes over long stretches of her skin. Nonetheless, she reaches into the lamp shade, fingers gingerly feeling around until she feels a small square jutting out of place. Ripping it off and shoving it into the phone, Shaw moves a glass of water and jams the ear wig below into her ear. Swiping the cell unlocked, she finds everything preset in the chip. Clicking a button, it dials.

"Look who's finally awake," Greer greets in a chipper tone. Shaw rolls the stiffness from her neck.

"What the _Hell_ did you do to me? I can't fight like this." Actually, she could, but it would be only half of her best work.

"We couldn't insert you looking healthy," Greer responds. "You were _‘tortured for over a year for information that you would not give up’_. Did you expect to look like you'd just stepped off the _runway_?" Shaw rolls her tongue over her teeth, irritated that he's right. "Do you have anything to report?"

Shaw takes a swig of the water at her bedside, checks to make sure no one is nearby, then clears her throat.

"I saw all of them," she informs him briskly. "Plus a detective. Lionel Fusco. Apparently, these guys are persuasive enough to gain support from the NYPD."

"If everyone were willing to fight for the more righteous cause, there would be no war," Greer sighs. "Very good, Miss Shaw. Now, rest up, you're going to need your strength." The line goes dead and Shaw tosses the phone onto the stand, digging the earwig from its place and stashing it under her pillow. _Save your strength bull shit,_ Shaw mutters to herself, laying back down. Fatigue begins to take hold of her, and before she knows it, her agitated grumbles give way to the blank static of sleep.

________ **||Phase One: Sleeping Sleeper||** ________

_'I swear to you, you're going to be okay now.'_

_Darkness is replaced my grainy images of blurred thoughts clashing together. An iron to Shaw's face and Root's smile in her sight._

_'Hey, Sweetie.'_

_'What's the package?'_

_'I am.'_

_Zip ties in Shaw's hands. A small struggle gone wrong, Root's breath on Shaw's skin, Root's back against cheap wooden floors._

_'I. Need. You.'_

_'Oh_ please _, I'm not scared.'_

_'Didn't know you cared, Shaw.'_

_Transcripts and a laptop on a kitchen table. Papers strewn across the floor and a shirt on the ground. Shaw's fingers in Root's hair, Root's hands on Shaw's hips, breathing hard. Falling off the couch. Keep going._

_'Sameen, if you even_ think _I'm gonna let you.'_

_'So it's that kind of party?'_

_'Stay the course, Sameen.'_

_An elevator with everyone watching. Someone's coming, it doesn't matter who. Root's eyes digging into Shaw's. Shaw's mouth on Root's. Long, not long enough. Doors closing, people shooting, Root screaming._

_'I love your similes.'_

_'You're hot. You're good with a gun.'_

_'Ooh, he's hot. I mean, not hood and zip ties in a CIA safe house with ten hours to kill hot.'_

_Shaw's hands zip tied together, Root's laugh in her ear, Root's shoulder in her mouth. Legs intertwined, heat rising, ten hours is a lot of time; ten hours still wasn't enough._

Shaw awakens to her heavy breathing and pounding heart. The world around her is bathed in blackness, not even stars in the window able to produce enough light to see three feet ahead. She holds her breath, forcing her heart under control. That's when she realizes she's not alone.

She becomes hyper aware of the presence at her left. There's a hand in hers; loosely, as if it wasn't an intentional move. Shaw slowly slides her hand free, then- with ginger fingers- she allows them to brush over a mop of hair that's pressed to her side. Her fingers graze soft skin, and instantly she knows. She knows it's Root.

She knows because she's felt it before, that soft warmth under her fingertips. Or maybe she hasn't. She has no idea how she would've, or could've.

Shaw swears under her breath as Root stirs, hair half messy and eyes slightly closed in sleep. Shaw's barely able to make any of it out, but she knows. In that same way she knew it was Root at her side, she knows how Root will wake up with her hair a mess.

There's a quiet noise, then the bedside lamp flickers on, emitting a dull, yellow glow that bathes Root's face in a halo glow. Shaw watches her, seeing those flashes from her dream popping like balloons before her eyes. She can't tell if they are washed out memories or mere overzealous fantasies, and doesn't dare ask on account of the latter.

"Everything okay?" Root asks, voice scratchy with sleep. Shaw can't answer at first; isn't sure how.

"We, uh... We need to get out of here," Shaw responds at last. Root tilts her head, giving Shaw a sympathetic look.

"I know," she responds, fingers stretching out to grab Shaw's hand before hesitating, then drawing them back to her side with the slightest of colors spilling onto her cheeks. "But you need to rest. So far, Samaritan hasn't found us." Shaw props herself up on her elbow, intrigued _. What does she know about Samaritan?_

"Have they been watching us?" Shaw asks, eyes intense. Root's gaze grows serious, although a humored smile flickers onto her face.

"Samaritan is _always_ watching," Root responds in a low, spiteful tone. Then, it clears. "But the Machine’s ready. We've almost got a way to put her back online, and then She can help us again." Shaw's brow furrows.

"She can help us again, _what_?" Root leans in on her elbows, smirk magnified a thousand times in her new proximity. Her eyes are the size of moons, and they shimmer with the light of stars. Her breath, nearly inaudible from her prior position, is nearly deafening now. Shaw can feel it against her skin, and her heart begins to gain speed.

"So She can help us fight back," Root tells her softly. "And so She can get back at them for what they did." Shaw knows she shouldn't ask- that it could compromise everything- still, she has to know. Needs to know. _If Greer didn't want me to ask, he would have told me._

"What did they do?"

Root presses her lips together, eyes flickering away from Shaw's. Perhaps down to Shaw's mouth? She isn't sure, nor does she have time to ponder it further.

"They took you," Root tells her quietly, so quietly Shaw's barely able to hear her over the silence. Root's eyes flash with pain. "They _hurt_ you." Shaw's heart shifts in her chest in a way she doesn't understand. It feels like it's flying and falling at the same time, and she isn't sure which to believe. _Is she lying to me?_ Shaw asks herself, yet she can't bring herself to fully accept the look in Root's eyes as false. "And they almost _killed_ the Machine." Root turns her head towards the lamp, and Shaw finds that she wants nothing more than for Root to look back. Coldness spills over Shaw's face, and she uses it to think more clearly. She's worked for Samaritan for years, and Decima even longer, right?  _How could anything Root had said have happened?_

Root peers back to her, a newfound vigor in her eyes and determination in her voice.

"But now the Machine's ready to go back online," Root tells her, eyes glowing. "Better still, you're back, too." Shaw drops her hand from the side of her head, all the while keeping her face even with Root's. She forces her way into Root's gaze, only to find there's nothing to force through. Everything is open. And with that, Shaw rolls her eyes, slightest shake to her head as she tells herself not to do it. _Don't do it, I swear to God you better not do it._

But she does it. She barely needs to lean forward for her lips to brush Root's, and before she's able to get any more momentum behind it, Root is already there, pressing into Shaw with an unexpected force, nearly enough to knock Shaw onto her back. Shaw grabs at the bed sheet for balance, only to realize her hand is wrapped around the front of Root's shirt, and Root is all too happy to be pulled forward. Shaw feels like she's been dowsed in kerosine with Root as the match, and now all she can see and feel is fire. Each touch is hot and every last one of Shaw's nerve endings are singed. It's absolutely everything Shaw remembered it was, but better.

___________ **||Phase One: Home||** ____________

Shaw turns the lock to an aged door, pushing it open with an un-oiled creak. Stepping inside, the cold smell of emptiness greets her, and she finds cement floors and old cabinets and a mattress laying on the floor. It looks as if it's been uninhabited for ages, and the smell of sour milk permeates in the air.

"Harold kept the place for you," Reese's low voice reaches her from behind as she peers around. _Kept what?_ Shaw wonders with cruel humor. _This shit hole?_

"He offered to set up a new apartment for you when you got back, but we all agreed you'd be better off coming home to your old apartment first," Root tacks on, and Shaw's eyes widen the slightest bit. _I lived here?_

"I'll have to tell him thanks," Shaw mumbles out, walking further into the flat. Past the smell of abandonment, something familiar holds firm. It's so subtle, Shaw nearly misses it. Yet, once she finds it, she can't help but to search the deepest and farthest crevices of her mind for an answer. It's a mix of bourbon, gunpowder, and Root.

Turning back to her targets, she sees them both waiting for something. What, she has no idea.

"I'd offer you a drink if I knew I had any," Shaw tells them, and Reese cracks a smile. Something about it rings a bell in the back of Shaw's mind, like the moment is half of a deja vu. A lot of things had begun to feel like that since waking up in the hospital. And the more it happened, the more Shaw couldn't help but wonder if Greer had left something out. If her 'relationship' with these people had been more than a brush here and there, and a kidnapping she was rescued from.

"Hope you don't mind," John says, headed for the fridge. "But I'm gonna have to borrow another one of your rifles." With that, he yanks open the fridge, and the foul stench from before bursts into the room with newfound vigor. Shaw scrunches up her nose in distaste, just as Reese pedals back and Root coughs.

"You've been stealing my stuff while I was gone, and didn't even bother to buy me fresh _milk_?" Shaw jokes, and past the arm he holds over his mouth, she can see his face pull up with a smile.

"I'm a gunman, not a maid," he shoots back, and Shaw can't help but to grin.

"You should let this place air out," Root tells her, the light in her eyes clinging onto an unknown thought.

"Air _out_?" John retorts with distaste. "You might as well burn it to the ground now." Shaw rolls her eyes, then realizes his statement. _He's highly dangerous, compulsive, and plagued with a hero complex_. _He_ could _burn the apartment building to the ground. Who knows, maybe he would._ But something inside of her says don't think about it, and she listens. Past her months of training for this mission, past all of the times she'd been prepared for the mind tricks this group could play, she was still falling prey to them. _I can fall back any time I want,_ Shaw thinks to herself bitterly, _I'm just in it for the mission._

"I'll just camp out on Root's couch," Shaw comments casually with a shrug of her shoulders, the stench not getting any more tolerable. Root chokes again, yet it's evident the foul odor isn't the culprit. Reese's eyes light with a devious match as he looks to Root with a sinister curl at the corner of his mouth.

"You better have a big couch," he tells her, and her eyes flicker between annoyance and smug satisfaction. Shaw, on the other hand, doesn't know what to make of it. _Was that the wrong response?_ Who is Root to her anyway? Reese? She could almost believe that- if he wasn't on her hit list- he was actually a pretty good guy. A man in a suit that could be a brother to her on any other day. As far as she's concerned, she'd been playing the part with him well so far, along with the NYPD Detective. He was irritating, but sort of likable, which was apparently the shared but unspoken opinion. Harold was a mystery figure; one that she could tolerate one moment, despise the next, and it never stopped fluctuating. He has a strict code that is riddled with exceptions, and a cold-kind-cold demeanor. Untrusting and far too unskilled in combat for his ego, Shaw had already took a jab at him more than once. He didn't appear too thrilled, but the others had masked smiles and smothered chuckles all the while.

_But who is Root to me?_ She wonders. _What ties do I have to this woman? This hacker, killer; this target?_ She was open to tell Shaw most anything she asked; honest; and seemed unable to feel anger towards her. Even still, she'd shied away from grabbing Shaw's hand the night before, and was now turning pink in the cheeks. Root was affectionate and friendly; distant and scarred; unplaceable and tempting.

"Uh, Shaw?" Reese's words break her thoughts into glass shards that clatter at her feet. She blinks, looking to him blankly. "You want to grab something to eat?" As if on cue, her stomach growls like a starved lion, and she peers between the two. Then, she smirks.

"I've been _dying_ for a good steak," she says.

________ **||Phase One: Sleeper in the Subway||** _________

Three days went by. The time spent with Root went by too fast, and the time cooped up in the subway with Harold went by too slow. Still, she was able to gather a plethora of information on the status of the Machine- mostly at Root's hand. She'd learned that the bug in its recognition software had been fixed, and that Harold had a new idea for installing the Machine, a way Samaritan could never guess. Now, all Shaw needs to know is where that place is.

So, she sits with her feet crossed on Harold's desk, snacking on a granola bar, waiting for awkward silence to melt into deep, incriminating conversation.

"You almost done?" Shaw asks, trying in vain not to spray crumbs. Finch peers at her with an agitation that quickly dissipates.

"I'm unsure what Miss Groves has told you, but as I've said before, it is best if you stay out of things for the time being." Shaw's irritation mounts.

"You don't _trust_ me?" Shaw spits in accusation, muffling the fact that he has every right to.

"I don't trust what little they _did_ to you," he corrects, watching her. Shaw raises an eyebrow.

"You think they should have done _more_ to me?" Shaw growls, and his lips purse, searching for the right words.

"I was worried about you, Miss Shaw. We all were. We searched for you, and we felt your absence every day. You were gone for over a year, but yet all of your visible injuries were sustained in less than a day from when you were brought into the hospital. I have to wonder what happened to those other months. Not to mention how smooth of a transition you're making back into normalcy."

"I'm a sociopath, Harold," Shaw retorts, finding it harder than it should be to squelch her anger. "Did you _really_ think I'd be emotionally effected?" She gives a cruel chuckle at that, yet Harold does not look convinced. He sighs nonetheless, focusing back on his computer.

"On the topic of _emotionally_ effected," he starts off slowly, and Shaw instantly coils her muscles tight, creating an armored shell of muscle to block out all emotional ties. "Your relationship with Miss Groves is-"

"Private," Shaw snaps coldly, eyes ice on the back of his neck. He types a little longer before saying more.

"I hope you'll realize that Miss Groves cannot be treated like any other partner you've had over the years," he says, and Shaw slams her feet to the ground.

"What the Hell is _that_ supposed to mean," she snarls, but doesn't wait for an answer. "And why do you call her 'Miss Groves' anyway? The only other person who does that is-"

"Mr. Greer, I'm aware," Harold interrupts tightly. Shaw watches his profile go rigid, jaw rolling jerkily as his teeth grind. " _However_ , while we both share the name for her, I'd like to think there are very different intentions behind it." There is a frigid edge to his tone that leaves Shaw wondering if the fight is worth it; if the pursuit will destroy her cover.

A silence as toxic as zyclon b fills the room, not even lifted when Bear trots forward to rest his chin on Shaw's leg. Shaw rubs the place between his ears subconsciously, another one of those things she knew without actually knowing.

"She risked her life- and nearly lost it- many times to find you," Harold tells her slowly, dangerously. "I just hope you understand that."

She doesn't. What could they be looking for her for? What could they possibly want with her? It still doesn't make sense. These people, these targets she'd been drilled to see as terrorists seemed to make rather good company. Most of them trusted her- _or so they said._ All of them missed her- _or so they claimed_. But she'd seen the tapes. She'd seen the video of Root tazing her in bed and dragging her from an apartment building, unconscious. She'd seen Root drill a hole through the top of a woman's hand. She'd seen John Reese gun down dozens of Samaritan agents. She'd seen him taking orders from the Machine- Greer called the phenomena God Mode- where the Machine told him where to shoot and he shot. It was all cold blooded and inexcusable. _He killed my people. They all did. Their over rated computer did._

But then here was Root, answering her questions in the middle of the night, bursting at the seams with the excitement of being able to save people again. _Who exactly did she think she was saving?_ People were dying, government agents were dying, because of them. Greer's words drift back to her about not everyone being able to fight for the righteous cause. She doesn't need everyone to, but maybe she could get them to. She could convince Root first, it would be the easiest to make her understand. They could tag team for Reese, and all three of them would be able to convince Harold. And after that, Samaritan could have the NYPD instead. There is only one question: _would they join her if their Machine is still alive?_

Shaw stands, stretches, and heads towards the exit of the station. She can feel Harold's eyes on the back of her neck, but he says nothing. Shaw escapes the station and throws herself into the flood of people on the streets. Scanning herself quickly for any bugs, she unlocks her cell. Hits a button. Waits.

"And just when I thought you'd never call," Greer greets her jokingly, and Shaw canvases the area for any familiar faces. "Do you have something for us?"

"They've got the Machine ready to go," Shaw tells him under her breath, head kept down. "But they're waiting for something, and I don't know what. Harold also has some idea of how to get it online without Samaritan knowing, but he won't tell me. He doesn't trust me yet."

"I'll be sure to take care of that," Greer assures her. "Now, get back to your mission, and stay in character. We're all proud of you, Sameen." He hangs up, and she brings the phone down into both of her hands. She watches the screen with its red triangle and black line, and it no longer feels like justice.

_________ **||Phase One: Kill Switch||** _________

"Get down! Get down!"

They'd been blitzed only a block from the subway station, met on both sides of the oncoming street by small militias of men and women in suits, firing mercilessly at them. Retreating to the shadows of a brick wall and a few cars, Root, John, and Shaw raise their firearms, all the while Finch clutches to a virtually indestructible suitcase filled with his greatest creation reborn.

Shaw feels the searing heat of a bullet clipping her flesh and grits her teeth, the pain only making her more determined to take whoever these people are down. She watches Reese duck out from behind the wall, fire a few shots, then slink back into the darkness. Root holds her own behind a car on the opposite side of the street as Shaw, Harold sitting at her side. His eyes burn into Shaw, practically glowing in the night, and she stands, unable to focus on their intensity right now. She fires once at center mass, yet, as the man drops, something feels off. Closing her eyes a moment, she breathes, letting instinct rage over training. Her arms angle down, and she opens her eyes just in time to fire at her next assailant. Two bullets for two kneecaps.

Shaw kneels back down for cover, flashbacks blinding her at the worst time. Visions of hanging out car windows, shooting at pursuers, running and shooting. All with these people. These three people. _And Fusco, if he counts_ , Shaw adds to herself. As a matter of fact, while these bursts rush into her head, not a memory Greer had fed to her during training rang any bells. Everything she knows feels flipped on its head.

"Shaw, we're headed your way," Root yells over the scream and pop of guns. "Cover me." Without thinking, Shaw stands once more, firing off round after round as Root and Harold cross the road, utterly exposed. Shaw takes half a moment to glance over at them. Harold uses one hand to hold onto his hat, the other on the briefcase as he runs as fast as he can. Root stands in front of him, one gun in each hand as she does her best to hit targets and watch where she's going. Shaw, eyes snapped back straight ahead, can't help the exhilarated smile that tugs at her lips. _Just like old times._

Shaw ducks just as a bullet sparks against the car hood, back slamming into the fender harshly. On her left, Harold grips the brief case. On her right, Root holds both guns up, breath labored and eyes wild. Root turns to face her, adoration pouring into her features. Shaw lifts her eyebrows; Root nods.

Shaw stands, gun firing at the onslaught of enemies. Half a second later, Root is pressed against Shaw's back, gun at either of Shaw's shoulders, picking off anyone not in Shaw's sights.

"We're so good at this together," Root coos in Shaw's ear, and her devious grin grows. _Good indeed._

"Harold!" John yells out, pressing his back against the wall. "This way!" Reese pushes out to shoot once more as Harold scampers to his flank, pushing against his limp to move as fast as possible. Shaw takes down a few more of their attackers, adrenaline pumping like blood in her veins as all of her previous injuries melt away. It's just her and Root and guns.

Then, Shaw sees it. That flash of light like the spark that sets a bullet spiraling from the barrel of a gun. A bright streak of something. Of Shaw throwing a stick of dynamite into the air and shooting it. Of Root pressed against her back, saying those same words as they shot those same types of people. An elevator that didn't work, and a button across the room. That kiss Shaw'd dreamt about in the hospital. That screaming from Root as Shaw got shot again and again, falling to the ground, and hitting it hard. A woman with blonde hair approaching in the smoke- Martine. A gun to Shaw's head, blood in Shaw's mouth. And suddenly, a piece of the puzzle snaps together.

_Root killed Samaritan's best agent. And she killed her for me._

"Pull back!" A voice screams from the wave of suits, just as something clatters to the asphalt at Shaw's feel. Metallic and riddled with evenly spaced lumps, it curves in the sparse light, fat in the center and rounded off at the top and bottom. Shaw knows what it is at once. She'd had one on her up until being stuck with that syringe.

"Grenade," Shaw bellows, lowering her gun as she grabs Root's wrist, wrenching her onto the sidewalk. Shaw drags her down the street as far as she can in three seconds, then throws Root to the ground, crumpling to the cement just after. Her palms scrape the ground as the sky erupts in flames. Glass shatters and car alarms wail, all the while Shaw buries her face into the crook of Root's neck, trying her best to cover Root's face without being able to see where it is. Shaw can feel the heat of the bomb licking her back and singing her hair, all the while her ears feel as if they've been taken to the cleaner's.

The world rings, then there is silence. Shaw waits a count of five, then moves slowly, pushing up from her scraped hands onto her aching elbows. Her eyes focus in on Root, who doesn't move at first. Yet, slowly, she rolls her head straight up, eyes opening with dazed unawareness. Seeing Shaw only inches from her face, her slightly out of focus eyes brighten, and she smiles.

"Now's not the _time_ , Sweetie," Root chuckles out, straining to keep the pain from her voice.

Shaw rolls her eyes before saying, "How did you ever survive a _day_ without me?"

____________ **||Phase One: Trust||** ____________

"You see, I told you I'd take care of it," Greer tells Shaw, who paces outside of Root's apartment. Up and down the hall, keeping as silent as possible when all she wants to do is make noise. To throw a table or shoot out a knee cap. She can't even raise her voice above a whisper.

"And _that_ was your _brilliant_ handle on things?" Shaw hisses, ears hot with fury. "They threw a _grenade_ at my feet. Do you have any idea how bad that could have been if I _didn't_ move in time?"

"It's all for a good cause," Greer informs her. "Besides, I have full confidence in your capabilities. Excellent touch on rescuing Miss Groves, by the way. Your loyalty to their team will be irrefutable now."

Shaw stops pacing and begins to tap her foot instead, arms crossed.

"However, I'm afraid it will not matter anymore," he tells her, and Shaw seizes up, breath bated and heart hitting against her chest loud enough to wake up the entire building.

"What do you mean," Shaw demands, voice tight.

"Samaritan has decided it has all the information it needs. It is time to commence Phase Two." Shaw's teeth grind together as she tries to convince herself that her heart hasn't just stopped.

"Now?" Shaw whispers into her com, trying to keep a shake from rising in her voice.

"You know how dangerous they are, Agent Shaw," he reminds her. "And with the Machine so close to being put back online, we cannot waste any more precious time."

Shaw's mind drifts back to the apartment, to the bedroom in the back where Root lies, asleep. Where Shaw left her after hearing a tritone in her ear- the signal to call in as soon as possible. She didn't want to. She was tired and her muscles were sore and Root was warm and inviting. Now, she wonders why she'd bothered to put on some clothes and step out of the home even more.

Shaw steps back before the door, resting one hand on the knob. She breathes slowly, tapping her forehead against the door a few times, collecting her thoughts. Seeing a mix between memories she hadn't known she owned and the videos she'd been shown back at head quarters. Each contradicting the other.

"How long until you want it complete?" Shaw sighs out, watching her plan to convert them all crumble. She's out of time.

"As soon as possible," he replies, and Shaw pushes through the door, into the darkness. She picks her way past dark shapes of furniture, eyes slowly adjusting to the blackness of the night. Shaw slinks into the backroom without a sound, watching Root's form. The rise and fall of her chest. The calm on her face. "You've done well," Greer says to her as she inches forward, a darkness blacker than the ebony blanket of night spreading like spilled ink in her eyes, leaking into her soul. "But now, it is time to kill them all." The line goes dead, leaving her alone with her thoughts. She listens to Root's slow, even breathing.

Then, she reaches towards the gun in her waistband. Slowly, silently, carefully. Shaw clicks the safety off; it sounds like a bomb in a graveyard. Her mind spins like a top, around and around and around.

Thinking of Root. Who she is; what she's done. All the bad things. All the illegal things. All the people she's killed and for what? _For a rogue super intelligence run by a man with glasses and a limp. She's on the wrong side. Who is Root?_ She's everything her file said she would be, and she is nothing like her file at all. But which side of her is the truth? Or are there no sides, and everything is interlocked too far to ever be undone?

_It doesn't matter_ , Shaw decides at last, raising her firearm. _I have orders, and I follow them._ Still, Shaw pulls out her cell; unlocks it. Her face is bathed in sharp white light, all the while a status update appears on screen.

**Operation Search and Destroy  
** Phase One: Complete  
Phase Two: Green Light 

Shaw lets out a string of swears in her head, stuffing the phone back into her pocket. Then, she takes aim, pointing the barrel at the center of Root's head. _It'll be quick; easy_. At the end of the day, she'd merely let herself be manipulated by the people she'd been trained to deflect. They'd gotten under her skin and planted themselves there. _But I'm a sociopath_ , Shaw says with a smile that feels like knives in her chest. _I'll get over it._

She tugs her aim a hair north. Exhales. Fires.

**Author's Note:**

> So this was not a prompt; however, it was annoying as Hell. It was in my head, and I couldn’t focus on the prompt I have up because THIS *angry glare upward* kept getting in the way. It just kept growing until I could read the sentences in my head, and the only way to get it off my mind was to get it out of my mind. There’s more to it- because obviously my brain never knows when to shut up and listen to me- but I’m good now until the next time my gray matter goes rogue. The next part is written- I typed all of everything in a couple of hours- and I’ll probably just post it whenever I haven’t posted in a while and need something to put up. Hope no one is mad!!!!! I’ll be right as rain to get back to what I like to do, so a) I’m sorry again for being stupid and b) I’m sorry for taking so long to post anything any more.


End file.
